Fogged Up Mirrors
by Courtney-Helena Greene
Summary: He could play it strong, at least through the day. He could play it like his heart hadn't been shattered in half. Johnlock. Rated T for language.


**FOGGED UP MIRRORS**

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**SUMMARY**

He could play it strong, at least through the day. He could play it like his heart hadn't been shattered in half. Johnlock.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

All the credit for this story's plot goes to imagineyourotp, the awesome blog on tumblr that I've linked in my blog. I hope you like it!

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**PROMPT**

Imagine person A of your OTP arriving home after person B's funeral. They've held themselves together so far and, afraid of being idle in the now very empty house, decide to take a shower and go to bed. As they step out of the shower, however, they notice the steam has fogged up the mirror. Written on the glass is a mushy 'I love you' from person B, who must have scrawled it there on the morning of their death. Person A finally breaks down, sobbing on the bathroom counter as the fog - and the message - fade away.

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**DISCLAIMER**

I do not own Sherlock.

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**FOGGED UP MIRRORS**

John sat in the very last row of the stuffy cathedral, aiming to separate himself from the rest of the funeral's attendees. Moving to the very back was a bit of a dramatic gesture, seeing as how only the first row of the cathedral was occupied. John could practically see his best friend throwing his legs over the pew in front of them, rambling on about why funerals exist, cursing their existence.

He couldn't see it, though. He never could. A pastor in the front droned on monotonously, his gray words bouncing off the equally gray walls. John shut his eyes. Maybe he could just sleep through the ordeal.

"This is utter bull," John inhaled sharply at the sudden voice beside him. Mycroft half-smiled at John. "Sorry," The pair settled back, trying to find comfort in the cold wood beneath them.

There wasn't any.

Mycroft scoffed as Sally Donovan took the stand, crocodile tears darkening her face. "She couldn't stand him."

"Neither could most of the other people here. Probably think it's their moral duty to attend, seeing as how many times he's saved them from themselves," John hugged himself against the cold draft that blew through the cavernous room.

"He never meant to save them," Mycroft laughed, running a hand through his thinning hair. "It was all about the hunt for him."

Eyeing the rosewood coffin in front of the altar, John almost smiled. "He saved me. I'd like to think that was intentional."

"Hm," Mycroft mumbled thoughtfully. After an eternity punctuated by empty words and insincere tears, Mycroft got to his feet. "You don't have to stay through the whole bloody thing," He eyed John.

"I do. You know I do," John didn't meet Mycroft's eyes.

He heard the older man take in a sharp breath. "Yeah," Shoving an elegant hand into his pocket, the remaining Holmes brother pulled out a cigarette. "In honour of him."

John didn't have to look to see what it was, her just gratefully took it. "See you 'round, Mycroft."

"No, you won't," John heard a lighter click open and then he was alone again, left with the fleeting scent of a cigarette and a shredded heart.

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Mrs. Hudson didn't bother him as he made his way up the steps. He tossed his coat on the floor, something that would have irked Sherlock to immeasurable lengths. John sat in his seat and opened his laptop, still open to his blog. He clicked, and a text box opened. John closed his eyes and breathed deeply, then set about to typing.

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**THE LAST POST**

It's all pointless now. I don't even know why I'm typing this up. Probably for closure. Yours, of course, never mine. I think that, when it comes to Sherlock, closure doesn't exist. I can't say I understand him, I can't say I ever have understood him, but I think he'd say something like 'The world never stops moving, so why should we?'. Nevermind. He's never been that simple.

I haven't been ignoring you. Well, actually, scratch that. I have. I've tried so hard to ignore every ping my computer makes when another one of you emails me, asking what in the world happened to Sherlock Holmes. It makes me sick, really. It's not your fault, it's mine. I should never have wrapped myself up in him in the first place, and I can't say I wasn't warned.

Anyway. I suppose I should tell you about his past.

Sherlock Holmes was born god knows when to god knows who, and he has an older brother named Mycroft. Sherlock is the world's only consulting detective, a title he made up for himself. He's smarter than you could ever begin to imagine, and he has his own website: The Science of Deduction. He has a love-hate relationship with the local police, and he is known for solving unsolvable cases.

That's it.

That's the extent of what I know about Sherlock Holmes in a single paragraph.

Now, I know what you've all been thinking (yes, I'm talking to you scary women from that tumbling website). _How can you not be in love with that man?_

The honest answer is: how can you be in love with that man?

Sherlock is a bastard, simply put. An asshole, who I'm sure sees himself as a god. He's a narcissistic prick, and he died because of that. And in a way, he died alone, because no one really knows who he is, and now no one ever will. Sherlock never cared to speak about himself, and I think that's his greatest fault. Because who died was a legend, a man who could do the impossible. But not a man. He died not being a man.

Why is that, you ask? Because a man has gone through a whole life and waves that as a symbol of his success. As far as I know, Sherlock was born a six-foot genius. I've never been told anything different. Being a man implies humanity, and I think Sherlock lacked that. He lacked a crucial connection to humanity, and he's been alienated for it.

That's why he's brilliant.

How could I possibly love such a perfect, brilliant man?

I don't know.

I just do.

Did.

I wrote this whole damn post in present tense, didn't I?

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John shut his laptop and rubbed his eyes. He needed a shower. That was it. Just a nice shower to refresh him. He kicked off his trainers and hobbled over to their bathroom. His bathroom, he corrected quickly. He lived alone, now.

As the water washed over him John wanted nothing more than to drink it all and explode. He wanted to fall apart, all in the hope that he could hold that thin, cold hand again, that he could kiss that porcelain skin again, that he could run his hands through that thick mop of brown curls again.

But he couldn't.

He knew that.

John stepped out of the shower, feeling even worse than when he got in. His eyes flitted up to the fogged up mirror for just a second, but that was all it took.

His heart dropped through the floor and quite possibly sank to the center of the earth. He noticed his little doodle he had made the night before Sherlock died, where he had fingered 'I LOVE YOU' into the cool glass. When Sherlock had died John couldn't bring himself to return to the apartment; he had stayed at Molly's house. Now he saw what must have waited for him the whole time.

Beneath John's scrawl was a clear, elegant 'I LOVE YOU, TOO'.

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**AUTHOR'S NOTE**

Yeah, I know. I can't wait for series 3, either.


End file.
